Dearest
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Never, not once in Ezekiel's memory, has anyone called him an endearment. Not and mean it, anyways. Not anyone who knows him.


Jacob is practically bouncing on his toes as he walks through the door into the Annex, humming happily; there's a wrapped package tucked under his arm, something book-shaped and likely very old and expensive.

Ezekiel flops back on a chair and props his feet up on the edge of Jacob's desk. "You find what you were looking for?" he asks, knowing the older man had just come back from an estate sale of some musty old book collector.

"Yes." The historian swats his feet off the desk and sits down. "A beautiful copy of the Iliad. First edition." He takes out a box of turtle clusters from the bottom drawer of his desk where he has them hidden from Cassandra's infamous sweet-tooth, setting it beside the package, which probably contained his new purchase.

"Mm, I've always preferred the Odyssey myself."

Jacob side-eyes him. "The story of a man punished for defying a god?"

Ezekiel waves a nonchalant hand and replaces his feet up on the desk. "He gets out of it. He's wily. And it's got a better ending. No blood and tragedy."

A low, rough chuckle. "Isn't that the whole point, darlin'?"

Ezekiel stills entirely.

Never, not once in his memory, has anyone called him an endearment. Not and mean it, anyways. Not anyone who _knows_ him. Some people have, usually older people or misguided workers in an absentminded sort of way, but then again, they probably would say the same thing to Apep, so in his opinion, it doesn't really count. It hurts a little, like something going down the wrong way…but it's warm, too, leaving him feeling all tender and soft inside.

Jacob's starting to look a little unsure of himself, his smile starting to slide away. Somehow that isn't acceptable, so Ezekiel forces a little smirk and says in a passingly normal voice, "Still doesn't make for good reading."

The smile comes back immediately, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"Turtle?" Jacob asks, offering him the box. Something in his voice sounds far too satisfied, the wanker.

"No thanks."

* * *

Jacob has an eye for shiny bits and bobs. Not like Ezekiel does as far as wealth and value, but just aesthetic or beauty. Even if it's just a worthless bit of junk, if it is pretty, Jacob is bound to like it.

Ezekiel follows a pace or two behind Jacob as they move through the Italian open-air market, watching him with a small smile. They hardly ever get a day off together, and when they do, they usually put the Back Door to use. Jacob pauses at a jewelry stand, examining the silver bracelets, like the ones that he wears. "Get one," Ezekiel says as he drifts past. He spies a pair of colourful dangly earrings Cassandra would like and nicks them…

…and then winces as Jacob pinches his arm hard. Damn. Busted.

Jacob picks out a pair of silver bracelets and chatters with the woman a bit, turning on a bit of the charm. "Thank you, my darlin'," Jacob says as the woman hands him his change and the paper-wrapped package. "Jonesy, you want to head up the road to that restaurant we visited last time? The one with the great cassata?" He glances back when he notices that Ezekiel isn't next to him anymore. "Jonesy? Everything alright?"

Ezekiel forces himself to unfreeze and plasters a smile on his face. "Yeah. Fine. Just fine," he replies, even though it is very much _not_. "You know what? Rain cheque on that, yeah?" He claps Jacob on the back maybe just a little harder than necessary, making the historian wince a little. "I've got a bit of something to take care of."

"Wait, you're going?" Jacob asks, puzzled, but Ezekiel's already turning away. "Okay…I'll see you back at the Annex…" He watches the thief's retreating back in bafflement, feeling like he's done something wrong, but not quite sure what.

* * *

Ezekiel manages to avoid Jacob for four days.

He should've known, he really should have. He can't believe he's stupid enough to think that it means anything. The git calls everyone that, why should he be anyone special? It doesn't matter. Really, it doesn't. He picks at the edge of his notebook, not really paying attention to the files that he's supposed to be sorting out before Eve strangles him. He's so busy wallowing that he doesn't notice someone coming in behind him until a warm hand brushes the back of his neck. He doesn't jump (he _doesn't)_ and turns around to see Jacob standing behind him; he hastily stands up and backs up a step, moving around the corner of the table.

"You've been avoiding me. I mean, I know you have. What's wrong? Is it…?" Jacob begins, then pauses for a moment, realisation dawning on his face. "My dear," he murmurs and Ezekiel flinches slightly. "My _darlin',"_ he says again, something in his voice catching slightly. "That's it, isn't it? That is it. I didn't mean to make you upset or something, but I—it's just…what you are," he says at last.

"What are you talking about?" Ezekiel asks, still refusing to look the man in the face.

"It's what you _are,_ Jonesy." The nickname makes him wince a little too, and Jacob takes a step nearer to him. He puts one hand over the thief's on the edge of the table, curling strong, callused fingers over quick, slender ones. "I know you. I know who you are, and what you are, and you are, underneath all that bluster of yours, a _good person._ A sweetheart."

"No, I'm not." Ezekiel looks at his hand, still resting under Jacob's, so damnably warm. A part of him wants to wrap his whole body up in that warmth, but a part of him wants to run away screaming as fast as he can, right now.

"Liar. And you are, by the way."

Ezekiel blinks. "I'm what?"

"Dear. You really are. To me." Jacob straightens up and reaches out to put his other hand against his cheek, hard and rough but still so very gentle. "Jonesy. I might call other people darlin' or sweetheart, and maybe I mean it sometimes, but I swear, Jonesy, you are _my_ darlin'. Mine."

Ezekiel tries not to but he smiles anyways, tilting his head a little to rub his cheek against Jacob's callused palm. Jacob slides his hand around to the nape of his neck, drawing him forward, enfolding both arms around him in a hug. Ezekiel buries his head against Jacob's shoulder, eyes closing tightly as he presses his face into the soft-scratchy flannel. Deep down inside him, in the soft, tender place he pretends he doesn't have, something curls up and _purrs_. He tries to subtly nuzzle Jacob's shoulder, rubbing his face against the warm, firm muscles overlaid with flannel material, but Jacob still notices, damn him.

"My dear, my darlin', my sweetheart," the historian murmurs softly, warm breath tickling his neck, and presses his lips over Ezekiel's pulse point, lingering for a long moment.

"You sap," Ezekiel chokes out, as if he's Mr. Tough Guy at the moment. He presses his face into the warm crook of Jacob's neck and inhales the scent of him.

"Call me what you like, Jonesy, but don't ever doubt that you are my darlin,'" Jacob replies, kissing the crown of his head. "Okay?"

"Mm."

Strong arms tighten around him, squeezing hard and then loosening up a little. "Say it."

"Alright, alright. I won't."

Jacob hums softly in his throat. "Much better. Now." He gently leans away enough to look Ezekiel in the face, smiling in that way that puts little lines in the corners of his eyes. Ezekiel is ridiculously fond of those little lines. "We have dinner reservations at La Galleria, and I do not intend on missing out. So let's get dressed, yeah?"

"Yeah. Alright," he replies, smiling; he untangles himself from Jacob reluctantly and heads towards his room. When he steps back out in one of his best suits, Jacob's already dressed and waiting for him, and Ezekiel can't help but preen a little, seeing how damn good the man looks in the suit Ezekiel had tailored for him.

"Ready to go?" Jacob asks, offering his arm; Ezekiel nods, slipping his arm through. As they step through the Back Door onto an Italian street, the historian rests his hand on Ezekiel's arm and smiles. "You look lovely, my darlin.'"

Ezekiel smiles back at him, feeling warm and light all the way down to his toes. He feels like he's floating. "So do you, love," he replies.


End file.
